I have not sought in battle-field
A wreath of such renown,

Nor dar'd I hope on my dying day
To win the martyr's crown!

"There is a chamber far away

Where sleep the good and brave,
But a better place ye have nam'd for me
Than by my father's grave.

For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might,
This hand hath always striven,
And ye raise it up for a witness still
In the eye of earth and heaven.
Then nail my head on yonder tower,
Give every town a limb,

And God who made shall gather them:
I go from you to Him!"

The morning dawn'd full darkly,
The rain came flashing down,
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
Lit up the gloomy town:

The thunder crash'd across the heaven,
The fatal hour was come;

Yet aye broke in with muffled beat

The 'larum of the drum.

There was madness on the earth below

And anger in the sky,

And young and old, and rich and poor,

Came forth to see him die.

Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!
How dismal 'tis to see

The great tall spectral skeleton,

The ladder and the tree!

Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms
The bells begin to toll —
"He is coming! he is coming!

God's mercy on his soul!'

One last long peal of thunder:
The clouds are clear'd away,

And the glorious sun once more looks down
Amidst the dazzling day.

"He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison

To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walk'd to battle More proudly than to die : There was colour in his visage,

Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvell'd as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,

And he turn'd him to the crowd;
But they dar'd not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he look'd upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue,

And in the liquid ether

The eye of God shone through;
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within-
All else was calm and still.

The grim Geneva ministers

As

With anxious scowl drew near,
you have seen the ravens flock
Around the dying deer.

He would not deign them word nor sign,
But alone he bent the knee,

And veil'd his face for Christ's dear grace
Beneath the gallows-tree.
Then radiant and serene he rose,

And cast his cloak away:
For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o'er him,

Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climb'd the lofty ladder

As it were the path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll;
And no man dar'd to look aloft,
For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,
A hush and then a groan;
And darkness swept across the sky —
The work of death was done!

TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL

JOHN MILTON

THE monarchy was abolished after the execution of the king, and a republic was attempted with Oliver Cromwell at its head. His task was one of supreme difficulty. Prince Charles had been proclaimed king by the Scotch and the conquest of England attempted. The victories of Dunbar (September 3, 1850) and Worcester (September 3, 1651) put an end to this enterprise, but an even more serious danger grew out of dissensions among the republicans themselves. Parliamentarians, Presbyterians, Puritans, and Levellers were advocating their various schemes for the regulation of church and government, and each party was endeavoring to force the acceptance of its opinions upon the distracted state. Cromwell complained that Parliament did nothing but " overturn and overturn." He was obliged to resort to tyrannical measures in order to maintain his authority.

·

Cromwell, our chief of men, who, through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd, And on the neck of crownèd fortune proud

Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwin stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories

No less renown'd than War; new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.

MELTING OF THE EARL'S PLATE

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY

NOT only in Scotland but in England as well, men were shocked by the execution of the king and by the arbitrary methods of the Commonwealth. The moderates came to believe that the only hope for law and order lay in the restoration of the monarchy, and they were willing to make every sacrifice for Prince Charles, the next heir to the throne.

Here's the gold cup all bossy with satyrs and saints, And my race-bowl (now, women, no whining and plaints!)

From the paltriest spoon to the costliest thing,
We'll melt it all down for the use of the king.

Here's the chalice stamp'd over with sigil and cross,-
Some day we'll make up to the chapel the loss.
Now bring me my father's great emerald ring,
For I'll melt down the gold for the good of the king.
And bring me the casket my mother has got,
And the jewels that fall to my Barbara's lot;
Then dry up your eyes and do nothing but sing,
For we're helping to coin the gold for the king.

This dross we'll transmute into weapons of steel, Temper'd blades for the hand, sharpest spurs for the heel;

And when Charles, with a shout, into London we bring, We'll be glad to remember this deed for the king.

Bring the hawk's silver bells and the nursery spoon, The crucible's ready — we're nothing too soon;